


You'll Shoot Your Eye Out, Kid

by AnxiouslyDreaming



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Shingeki no Kyojin Fusion, Elf!Eren, Festive!Marco, Fluff, Grinch!Jean, Jean's middle name is up for debate, M/M, Mall Santa!Mike, SANTA IS REAL NERDS, Salaciously lizarding the roof of Marco's mouth tbh, Talk of boners, all aboard the cheesy cheese train to Cheeseville
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:59:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnxiouslyDreaming/pseuds/AnxiouslyDreaming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jean Kirschtein is kind of a Scrooge and Marco Bodt is kind of the remedy.</p><p>The title is a blatant reference to A Christmas Story, both mine and Jean's favorite Christmas movie. Fight us about it. </p><p>Merry Christmas, my little Shingekis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You'll Shoot Your Eye Out, Kid

"Okay but we _have_ to make rum balls this week, it really reminds me of home—"

"Jean! Drop it! Drop the candy, that's an advent calendar, why would you—you cannot be serious, mister—"

"Oh! There's this entire neighborhood about 20 minutes away that's coordinating their decorations into some crazy choreographed musical light show tonight. I saw it on the news, we should go—"

"Huh? Mm, I'll come to bed in a minute. I'm just Googling to see if there's a live nativity scene in the area this Christmas Eve. ...What do you mean 'why the fff—'? It's so impressive. ...Er. Yeah? Yeah, I suppose you can pet the goats, Jean. I-I don't think there were elephants in the manger. Right. 'Elephants are cool like baby Jesus,' what does that even—why are we _yelling_?"

Day in, day out. Deck the halls with boughs of _fucking kill me_. Festive activity suggestions from the Adorable Freckled Christmas Nazi (as Jean had so lovingly dubbed him, only in his head) running at full power. His eyes overbright with enthusiasm, a jingle in his step.

No. Seriously. A jingle in his step, the backs of his socks had little bells attached. While Jean initially found this dorkiest of choices in apparel disgustingly endearing, he also took immediate offense to the existence of this suddenly "shitty footwear" the day that Marco thrust a pair in his face and suggested he "buck up and put them on" so he would "know exactly where the Grinch is getting into trouble without having to get up and look."

In hindsight, letting Marco skirt his family obligations and spend Winter Break with him instead may _not_ have been the best idea Jean had ever agreed to.

It wasn't like he didn't enjoy Marco's company—fucking hell, that wasn't the case whatsoever. Jean truthfully couldn't get enough of the guy. His best friend, confidant, lover—his own personal ray of sunshine. He was 97% certain he'd agree to have some kinda conjoined twin surgery performed on the two of them if it wouldn't impede their sex life. But uh, the fleeting thought also reminded Jean of Human Centipede and managed to creep him out in a big way while simultaneously calling his own sanity into question. 

Even if Marco's interest in yuletide tradition far surpassed that of what Jean was accustomed to, he still found it as precious as a pile of newborn kittens. A pile of newborn kittens...pouring egg nog down his throat...and singing Last Christmas in the shower every morning.

The whole situation was a touch more complicated in Jean's mind. The guilt was insurmountable. He knew damn well that Marco hardly ever got to see his family as it was with school and all. As it so turns out, halfheartedly mumbling "Christmas was never really a thing with my family" into your bowl of Lucky Charms is _not_ the wisest response to your boyfriend asking "So when are you leaving town?"

One non-refundable flight cancellation later, Jean found himself bounding through a crowded, ritzy shopping mall exactly one week from the big day, Marco in tow. Jean's partially unwound scarf being tugged excitedly in all directions (he couldn't help mentally making a leash comparison), the less excitable of the two found himself struggling to keep a hold on the bags and boxes they'd accumulated. 

Indignantly wondering to himself how _he'd_ managed to become the gift mule, a grinning freckled face craning into his view quickly shook Jean from his grumpy reverie.

"Santa just came back from lunch."

Jean raised a sharp eyebrow at the comment and stopped dead in his tracks. This unanticipated change in pace caused someone behind them to slam into his back, toppling a few boxes from his tenuous grasp, giving Marco a clearer look at the _you have some tentacles growing out of your head there_ face that Jean was supplying.

Marco answered the wordless inquiry by casually gesturing to Santa's Workshop set up in the middle of the mall, while picking up the runaway parcels. An "elf" was lowering the rope, signifying that Santa was indeed back from probably the food court or something less magical than was to be implied. Jean narrowed his eyes, half in vehement disapproval of what Marco was suggesting and half because that elf kinda looked like...

"Nice tights, Eren!" Jean sneered loudly from across the way, taking a shot in the dark due to the fact that he accidentally left his glasses at home. Uh, sure, accidentally.

The blurry elf slowly turned in his direction and surreptitiously slipped him a very low (and out of focus) middle finger, both confirming Jean's suspicions and meriting a boisterous overreaction from him.

"Uh, security? That elf just took a shit on my Christmas cheer, I need a manager—"

Marco sighed and tugged on Jean's scarf again, more pointedly this time and met his eyes with a soft and pleading mixture of _shut up_ and _come on!_

Jean sucked his teeth and broke from Marco's grip, making his way around the back of the setup and eyeing Santa's throne with mild distaste before returning to his boyfriend, head shaking in profuse refusal.

"Uh-uh. Sorry babe but I gotta draw the line somewhere. I am _not_ sitting on that dinglehopper's lap. I'm pretty fucking sure I just watched him sniff a kid and tell her she smelled like a good girl. Just. Nuh-uh."

Six days later, Jean found himself tangled in blankets on his dorm's futon, indulging in one of the few Christmas-y things he allowed himself every year—the 24 hour televised marathon of A Christmas Story. Listening to Marco rustle around in the bathroom, he sung a soft _you'll shoot your eye out, kid_ to himself in time with the TV while grudgingly swiping up the framed picture posed beside him.

Marco sat on one of Santa's knees, tugging his beard with a sparkly, shit-eating grin of triumph. Jean sat on the other knee, fists balled up in his own lap, craning his neck away from the big red guy warily, all grimaces and eyebrows. Santa appeared to be attempting to take a rather large whiff of Jean.

The picture was nice to have. Really nice. It was very... _them_ and it made a certain warmth bloom in his chest—something he'd never admit to.

"Never believed in Santa anyway," Jean admitted under his breath with a scoff, a half-smile gracing his features in spite of the comment.

The bathroom door swung open with such a clatter that Jean sprang to his feet to see what was the matter.

"Jean Aloysius Kirschtein."

Marco had made his boxer-clad presence known, severe concern written all over his face, hands on his hips, a foamy toothbrush hanging out of his gaping mouth.

Jean's look of shock quickly melted into blazing confusion.

"Did you just—"

"Well I don't know your middle name," Marco admitted sheepishly, his facade melting for a second before steeling himself again.

"Let's keep it that way," Jean commented mechanically, hand instinctively shooting down to his pocket as if Marco were going to leap halfway across the room and somehow finagle his driver's license.

"Did I just hear what I thought I heard?"

"Yeah?" Jean replied briefly, flopping back down onto the futon.

"You wait until Christmas Eve to drop a bomb like that on me?" Marco turned away and spat into the sink, going for the mouthwash.

"Well technically I was dropping that bomb on myself and you just happened to overhear. What are you, a bat?"

Marco leaned back into the doorway inquisitively, too busy gargling to retort.

"They have good hearing. Science," Jean explained matter-of-factly, slowly turning his attentions back to the TV.

It wasn't long before Marco finished up and plopped down behind Jean's reclined form, pulling his head into his lap and combing his fingers through Jean's sandy hair. The tone of his voice made Jean feel like an injured baby bird—if people spoke to injured baby birds, he supposed. Jean would. Shit, Marco too, probably.

"Why didn't you tell me? I could've made you a believer by now."

Jean didn't even pull his gaze away from the movie.

"Cool shit. Nice to meet you, stranger. Name's Jean. I'm 20, 21 in April, a grown ass man, mind you—"

His cheeks were suddenly sandwiched between warm hands and Marco was forcing his face upward, peering down at him with a teasing smile.

"That's a shame, Grown Ass Man, because I'm leaving cookies out for Santa tonight—"

"So what you're saying is I can eat 'em?"

"For _Santa_ ," Marco emphasized with an airy laugh, rolling his eyes, "and celery for the reindeer."

A strangled snort left Jean's throat and his previously stone cold expression morphed into a fit of derisive laughter, sputtering for words.

"You—I'm gonna—reindeer? _Celery_? Babe I don't have any fucking celery, I don't even know what celery tastes like, your mystical magical sky horses are gonna _starve_ to death before they reach Japan—"

"You're the only horse I see here," Marco insisted with a boop of his nose, earning a scowl from Jean. "Ten steps ahead of you. Bought some."

The freckled boy nodded in the direction of Jean's desk where a plate of cookies and celery already lie in wait, flanked by two glasses of milk—one chocolate.

"Why—" Jean started out, brows furrowed and Marco already had the answer.

"Santa left me a note one time as a kid, thanking me for the milk, but said he was actually in the mood for some chocolate. So y'know. Options."

Jean stared up at him in silence, his adoration for his boyfriend absolutely palpable, before his free hand snuck up with a pillow and gently smothered Marco.

"That's a waste of food. Aren't you worried about the starving kids in Mordor—"

"Ethiopia?"

"That." Jean removed the pillow at the muffled correction.

There was a silence between their staring contest that spoke volumes. It basically signified that Marco was standing his ground and Jean could kindly get over it.

Rolling from his lap, Jean turned off the TV and clapped twice, the lights dimming instantly. He could feel Marco's incredulous stare even in the dark.

"That's...that's for old people," he whispered meekly in reference to The Clapper, sidling up behind Jean and embracing him fully.

"I'm lazy," Jean admitted, wriggling himself back into his grasp and earning himself a kiss just under his ear from Marco.

"Sweet dreams, Jean," he whispered again, burying his face in the back of his neck.

"Mmm. Visions of sugarplums are dancing in my head," Jean replied sarcastically, squeezing his boyfriend's hands with all of the affection in the world because despite his sour attitude, despite his unwavering protests to most things concerning the holiday...

"I love you."

The confession came out after a sizable amount of time had passed. Sizable enough for Marco to now be asleep.

Judging by the silence, judging by the fact that the sheets hadn't flown off and left a cartoon cloud of dust in the shape of one Marco Bodt, Jean deduced that he _was_  asleep. Swallowing hard, his heart squeezed painfully, almost as tightly as he was gripping those freckled hands. He held onto them with a white-knuckled possessiveness he wasn't sure he had in him until just now and shakily forced himself into slumber.

Morning came far too soon, blinding sunlight streaming in from the window and greeting Jean's tired eyes with a big _fuck you!_ He groaned, groggily unhanding Marco while simultaneously noting even in his haze that they'd never switched positions.

He reluctantly sat up with a yawn and a stretch, silently willing his morning wood away as he'd fully intended to make his way down to the vending machines for a Mountain Dew. He was fairly certain that nothing would be the antithesis of _Merry Christmas!_ quite like a Kirschtein boner on full display in the common room. Or heh, maybe it wouldn't.

 _Ho ho ho, bitches. You can look but you can't touch_ , he thought smugly to himself as he rose to his feet, eyes barely open, fumbling for his jacket before unceremoniously tripping over—

Jean squinted at the ground behind himself.

A shiny purple foiled package all topped off in red ribbon was the culprit. One that wasn't there last night. _No_ gifts were here last night, he assured himself, backing away to slowly jiggle the doorknob and make sure it was still locked. Jean was in the process of preparing himself to check the window instead, when he caught his desk in full view and he nearly pissed himself right then and there.

The entire length and surrounding area of the desk was littered with presents neatly wrapped in all shapes and sizes, comically large tags attached to each one that either bore the name Jean or Marco in flawless calligraphy.

Wide eyed and shaking in bewilderment, Jean tripped over his own two sleepy feet in pursuit of the area, falling to his knees and coming eye level with an empty plate. Well, empty except for cookie crumbs. The glass of chocolate milk was drained, while the other was indeed untouched.

Jean's nostrils flared, the feeling of being duped like a...like a _child_ abruptly washing over him and incensing him. Clearly the only logical answer was this was _his_ doing, _he_ ate the cookies, _he's_ gotta taste like—

Suddenly more than alert, Jean flew back onto the futon in a blind rage and dug into Marco's hair with suspicious talons, tilting his head back and prying his mouth open with his tongue.

Marco woke with an obvious start, the least manly shriek he'd ever emitted muffled by Jean's probing tongue, silver dollar eyes flitting about in confusion but not exactly protest—only shoving Jean away when the moron started licking the roof of his mouth and growling in frustration.

"What in blue blazes—"

"HMPH!" The wordless squeak emanated from a speechless and—was he angry or scared?—Jean, hair sticking up in twelve different directions, jabbing a finger furiously at the desk behind him.

Marco let out some combination of a laugh and a yawn, his tired smile crinkling his eyes and he rubbed at them innocently.

"Oh? Yep. I told you so. Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown."

Jean's jaw stiffened and he smacked his mouth together a few times in a panic, trying desperately to taste evidence that just wasn't there.

Marco leaned forward and smoothed Jean's hair lovingly, calming the beast almost instantly. Wrinkling his nose, he placed a chaste kiss to Jean's lips before closing his eyes and pressing their foreheads together.

"By the way? I love you, too."

**Author's Note:**

> The Christmas inspiration train was cruel and merciless, running me over without a second thought and leaving me for dead. Send flowers.
> 
> I literally cranked this out on my phone's notepad app while babysitting in an hour or two and didn't really proofread it so uh, sorry not sorry? I kinda wrote it with the intent to make my boyfriend laugh (maybe a lame preface to any Christmas gifts he shall receive) and also because these cuties are slowly becoming my life and I'm fluffy, nerdy trash. Crack city bitch, crack crack city bitch.


End file.
